


may it be a light to you in dark places

by Thealmostrhetoricalquestion



Series: Lamplighter [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Awkward Romance, Bedtime Stories, Derek is a Failwolf, First Meetings, Fluff and Angst, Multi, Prince Derek, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Werewolf Culture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-04
Updated: 2015-11-04
Packaged: 2018-04-30 01:27:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5145200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thealmostrhetoricalquestion/pseuds/Thealmostrhetoricalquestion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek turned to peer into the relative darkness behind him. He was surprised to see a boy there, a figure that looked about Derek’s age, maybe a little younger. He had dark, unruly hair and very pale skin that was dotted with a number of strange freckles. He moved closer to Derek, out of the shadow of the gloomy corridor and into the path of the moonlight. </p><p>And the moon hugged him, for what a sight he was. </p><p>(Or the one where Derek is a Prince and Stiles is the Lamplighter that keeps the Kingdom safe, and they both share secrets that lead to love.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	may it be a light to you in dark places

**Author's Note:**

> Title is taken from The Fellowship of the Ring (May it be a light to you in dark places, when all other lights go out), by J.R.R. Tolkien.  
> This story takes place in a made-up Kingdom, in a made-up world. The Hale's are the Royal Family, and this is the story of how Derek and Stiles meet.  
> I hope it's not too bad. Please let me know if you enjoyed it. No warnings or triggers.  
> Thank you!

There had been a time, not as long ago as he liked to pretend, when Derek had been deeply envious of his older sister. Laura was first in line to the throne, the first Princess, and it was writ in all the old scrolls, that the first Princess would take the throne, no matter whether there was another heir, or an older son. And what was writ in the old scrolls was law, through and through. There would be no ignoring it. Even if it had not been written so, Laura was a few years older than Derek, and Cora was a few years younger than the both of them, and Talia and Andrew Hale had no other heirs to speak of. Laura was always meant to be Queen. 

He had envied the regal line of her neck, the proud tilt of her chin, the strong commanding tone that slipped from her mouth and rang forcefully through the room just as easily as it did their Father. He had envied her assurance, her easy acceptance of the fact that she was worthy of something big and bright, that she was worth a place on this earth. Childishly, he had coveted her secret lessons behind closed doors, the values and morals and tactical strategizing that were passed down to her from the King and Queen and the guards and the soldiers and the advisers. 

It was stupid and pointless, and Derek had long since decided that ruling a Kingdom would do nothing but bring him stress and pain and fear. Besides, he was still a Crown Prince, and although their parents favoured Laura in the matters of teaching and Royal matters, they were never preferential with their love. 

It was on a hot evening that Derek was reminded of his past jealousy and marvelled at how stupid it was. The Throne Room was crowded with people in elegant dressed that swept the floor and fine suits that tucked in at the right places. Jewels dripped from wrists and earlobes. The ladies fanned themselves with scraps of lace, their cheeks flushed with the spice of their wine and the heat that drifted in from the open windows. Men tugged at their collars and boasted their opinions in loud, booming voices, made louder by alcohol. 

Derek watched from the corner, leaned up against the stone walls and perfectly content to remain there, sipping from his goblet and avoiding any awkward encounters where he would have to speak. 

“I know you hate these kinds of events, Derek, but even you have to admit that this is taking it a little too far. You’ve practically draped yourself in shadows.” 

Cora appeared in a whirlwind of red silk and shining jewellery. Her dark hair had tumbled loose from its plaits and her bright eyes were fixed on Derek, even as she waved merrily at the man who had just spun her across the dancefloor towards him. 

Derek eyed the man suspiciously, but there was no time to interrogate him. He disappeared into the throng of dancing people in the blink of an eye. Derek settled for glaring at his sister instead, who simply smirked and plucked his goblet out of his hands. She took a large gulp and then sighed, picking up her skirts as she leaned against the wall beside him. 

“You look like you’re enjoying yourself,” Derek said, snatching back his drink. 

“And as usual, you don’t,” Cora replied, shaking her head. She was tiny next to Derek, a small bundle of wiry muscle and thin, delicate limbs. She was strong though, stronger than quite a few of the knights that Derek had the honour of sparring with on the brisk Sunday mornings when he had nothing better to do. 

“Just once, Derek, just once, you could ask someone to dance,” Cora whined. Derek would never tell her that she sounded nasally and young when she whined, for fear of ending up in the infirmary with broken kneecaps. His sister could be quite creative when it came to revenge, even over the smallest of matters. Once, in a fit of temper, Laura had snapped the head off of one of Cora’s porcelain dolls and proceeded to throw it out of the open window. Derek could still recall the screams that had echoed through the castle when Laura had woken to find all of her toys dismembered in some manner or other and tied to her bedposts. 

It had been an eye-opener into exactly how morbid Cora could be, and a demonstration in her ruthlessness. 

“Look at all of these women,” Cora said, sweeping a hand out. “They would all jump at the chance of dancing with the Crown Prince of the Kingdom. You wouldn’t even have to talk to them. You could just waltz them into a stupor.” 

Derek fixed her with a dry stare. “I would rather wear Laura’s crown for a week.” 

Laura’s crown was perhaps the gaudiest thing ever to grace the planet. It was large and ornate, made of silver and heavily adorned with purple gems and jewels which sparkled maniacally in the firelight. Laura wasn’t even Queen yet, and yet she insisted on wearing it to every party or ball. Sometimes, she even wore it to breakfast. 

“I keep telling her that the crown is the only reason why she gets pains in her neck,” Cora muttered, snatching Derek’s goblet once again and draining it in one go. 

“Laura is a pain in the neck,” Derek said, shooting Cora a dirty look and flicking her on the ear. “And so are you, go on. Go and dance, if that’s what you want so badly.” 

Cora’s irate look softened into something fond and exasperated. “What I want is for you to have an enjoyable night, for once. Stop brooding and do something. Go for a walk for all I care, just stop looking so miserable. Every time I look over here I expect to see that you’ve sprouted wings and turned into a bat. It’s positively gloomy.” 

“So don’t look then,” Derek called, but Cora was already striding off into the crowd, flicking one hand over her shoulder in a showy gesture of understanding. 

“Go and be dull elsewhere,” Cora called, and then she was gone. 

Derek stared after her with a resigned expression. He was used to never getting one over on his sisters, to being the brunt of their teasing. In truth, he didn’t mind, and they usually never said things that weren’t true. He didn’t like public speaking. He didn’t enjoy the balls and the parties and the evening dinners. He hated the stiff clothes that he was forced to wear. He hated his confinement to the castle, although that had never truly been a rule that he stuck to. There were ways to disguise yourself if you really needed to, and  
if he didn’t have time to go out without his guards, Derek could always shake his escorts. 

The jaunty music took a turn for the worse, softening and slowing. As one, the guests slowed to an almost halt, and people began to pair off, spinning in small circles as a violin set their steps. It was a beautiful tune, Derek could admit, and the strawberry-blonde woman that moved from the cello to the edge of the stage had a beautiful, eerily haunting singing voice, but Derek couldn’t help but wish that he was elsewhere. 

He watched as his Mum and Dad took to the dancefloor with a soft, fond smile. Talia seemed to glow with radiance in her simple silver dress, her long hair plaited just like Cora’s. Andrew’s kindly eyes crinkled at the corners with love and affection as he swirled his Queen across the floor. People parted for them, watching their beloved monarchs with awe and reverence. 

Talia and Andrew had ruled over their people for a good forty years, perhaps more – Derek was the first to admit that he didn’t pay much attention in history class, not even when it involved his own family. In that time they had seen off the worst of the Ogre wars, brought peace and prosperity to the Kingdom of Beacon and brought justice to an entire line of hunters, the kind that didn’t care about what or whom they hunted, so long as the chase was good. They had raised three children and earned the love and respect of all of their people, even the troublesome ones. 

They were big shoes to fill. It was part of the reason that Derek was so glad, now, after a few years of consideration, that Laura was the one that would have to step into them, and not Derek. 

He tore is eyes from his parents to glance at his sister, who lounged on the slightly smaller, silver throne, eyes sweeping the hall. Every now and then, she reached up to rub at her neck with a wince and adjust the hideous crown that sat upon her dark curls. Derek stifled a grin. 

The singer reached a particularly high note that wrung a hum of approval from the dancers and a grimace from Derek, whose head was beginning to ache. He snagged a goblet from a passing waiter, whose hands were trembling beneath the weight of the platter, and then surreptitiously poured the contents into a flask that was fastened to his hip. Then he braced himself and began to barrel through the mass of people, shifting around them and attempting to not step on anyone’s toes. 

He caught sight of Uncle Peter demonstrating a magic trick with an easy smile, surrounded by a group of willowy young women and rolled his eyes before slipping through one of the side-doors. 

The chatter and laughter and music seemed to fall away, leaving him in quietude, with just the stone walls as his companions. The corridor had grown dark as the evening drew on, but torches flickered happily in their brackets, cluttering the hallway with shadows that moved and breathed and seethed. Derek reached for one of the torches and unhooked  
it from its place on the wall, holding it out in front of him as he began to walk. 

The castle no longer kept any secrets from Derek. He had grown up within these walls, and he knew which ones moved and which ones didn’t. He knew about the trapdoors in the floor that led to barren treasuries and dungeons. He knew which tapestries stood guard over secret passageways that ran through the middle of the castle, a maze of corridors, a labyrinth that he had long since explored. 

That didn’t mean he loved it any less. He could walk these halls for the rest of his life and be perfectly content. 

He came across the large tapestry that marked the end of the West Wing of the castle, a mass of purple fabric, thick and heavy, and beautiful beaded embroidery. A few beads had come loose and slithered down into the cracks in the floor over the course of many years, but the tapestry simply looked all the more valuable for it. Derek placed the torch in an empty wall bracket beside the tapestry and then heaved it aside carefully, placing one hand against the wall behind it. He shoved, hard, and the wall shifted, opening up to reveal a dark space. 

Derek was familiar with every step, and he ascended the stairs that couldn’t be seen from the bottom or the top with relative ease. There were no torches here, no white Lamps to guide his way, but Derek didn’t need them. He knew the way. 

The passageway took him through the heart of the castle and then up, up, up into a wide corridor. It ended in the middle of a corridor that faced the Kingdom. Pillars held up the curved roof, and each archway was home to a balcony that jutted out from the stone in a smooth curve. There were no windows, barring a small stained glass one set into the far wall. Derek breathed in the fresh, cool air and sighed in relief. There was only one other doorway to get out of this place, and nobody ever used it. The corridor was a dead end, unless your aim was a short drop down over the edge of one of the balconies. 

That was not Derek’s aim, but he made his way towards the balcony furthest from the door at the end, where he wouldn’t be seen if someone did happen to wander up here. 

The moon hung from the sky on a silver string. The sky was a dark canvas swathed in black ink, and the longer he looked, the more stars he could see. They winked at him, one by one, and he winked back. He felt at peace here, far from the chatter of the crowds that danced themselves into a frenzy, far from the haze of heat that came hand in hand with bodies that twirled together. 

Derek pulled off his suit jacket and draped it gently over the edge of the balcony, rolling up his shirtsleeves. He leaned his elbows up against the cold stone and relished in the breeze that swept over him. The Kingdom of Beacon stretched out in front of him, a vast expanse of twinkling lights and thatched rooftops. He could see the armoury and the silversmiths, the bakery that made his favourite iced buns, the kind with the fruit mixed into the dough. The Sheriff’s station stood proudly to the left, down between a row of little houses. The light was still on, and Derek was not surprised at all. The Sheriff was a hard worker, very dedicated to his job. 

He turned his gaze to the places beyond the Kingdom. The rolling hills of Marchbeam with their luscious green grass and pastures full of grazing animals. Farmers worked the fields day and night, wiping the sweat from their brow as they tended the ground. Beyond the hills was the forest, known to the villagers of Beacon as Creekwater Woods, where the wildest animals lurked. It was a place of magic, a place that Derek both loved and feared. And beyond that, beyond the reaching trees and the immeasurable amount of earthen caves, beyond the sprawl of roots and the roars of creatures both small and terrifying, there was a world that Derek had never experienced. 

Sometimes, he could see balloons as big as houses ascend into the sky, distant and shrouded in mystery. Sometimes, he could see showers of stars that flew up from the ground into the night, lighting the sky. Sometimes, people wandered into Beacon with a tale on their lips that would spill forth freely with a little nudge from alcohol. Their words left energy thrumming through Derek’s blood. 

Derek loved his home. He loved his castle, and he loved his people, his family. But he was restless and curious enough to ponder what it might be like out there, beyond the walls that seemed to grow smaller and smaller every day. He wondered if the sun was brighter out there, if the rain fell more swiftly, if the grass was green or grey. 

“Hullo,” came a voice from behind Derek. 

Derek jumped, banging his elbow against the wall, dragged from his introspection. He hadn’t heard anyone coming. He prided himself on having exceptional hearing, a fact which he exploited in order to pull off the stealthiest of kitchen heists. He could always heard Cook’s footsteps on the first set of stairs before Cora, who was usually loudly bemoaning the fact that someone had eaten the treacle tart. Privately, Derek suspected that it was Cora herself who had eaten it, without realising exactly how much she had eaten, but he had vowed not to let those words become anything more than thoughts. He valued his life. 

But he hadn’t heard anyone coming. 

“Sorry, man,” came the voice again. “Didn’t mean to spook you. I just need to get around you, one second.” 

Derek turned to peer into the relative darkness behind him. He was surprised to see a boy there, a figure that looked about Derek’s age, maybe a little younger. He had dark, unruly hair and very pale skin that was dotted with a number of strange freckles. He moved closer to Derek, out of the shadow of the gloomy corridor and into the path of the moonlight. 

He wore simple clothes. A white shirt, similar to Derek’s but less crisp and more creased, highlighted his wiry muscles and broad shoulders. Brown trousers hugged his legs. Sturdy walking bots encased his feet, the kind that Derek wore when the hunting party went east, up to Creekwater Woods, where the ground was treacherously muddy and steep. 

“I didn’t realise I was in the way of anything,” Derek said haltingly, registering the boy’s words. He wasn’t sure why he felt so awkward in the face of this boy, but there was something bright and warm in his eyes, something that left him speechless. That, and Derek had never been very good at speaking with people that weren’t family, that didn’t already know how awkward he was. 

He must have come across as gruff or stern, because the boy furrowed his brow, frowning at Derek with a touch of dislike. 

“You’re blocking the Lamp, up there,” the boy said. His voice was a little harder than before. “I can’t get reach it if you’re stood in the way, and if I can’t reach it then I can’t light it. Ergo, you need to take your brooding routine elsewhere so that I can finish my job.” 

Derek rubbed a hand over his eyes and stepped aside. He still felt uncomfortable, but he also felt a little bit angry. Mostly with himself, since the boy hadn’t said anything untruthful. Why couldn’t he get two words out of his mouth without offending anyone? 

“My apologies,” Derek said softly, speaking slowly so as not to pick out the wrong words. “I didn’t intend to offend you. I just didn’t know that there was anything here, that’s all.” 

“That’s because the Lamp isn’t on yet.” The boy raised an eyebrow, expression dryer than the Southern Sands. “You can’t see anything because it’s dark, moron.” 

Derek did a double-take, mouth dropping open at the insult. Nobody called him a moron, barring Cora and Laura, and on occasions, his mother, if he’d done something stupid.  
Uncle Peter called him much worse on a daily basis, just for existing. But people he had just met didn't call him a moron. 

“You just called me a moron,” Derek said blankly. 

The boy rolled his eyes. “Pretty astute, aren’t you? Are you going to move, or not? This is my last Lamp to light, and then I get to go home and collapse in my bed and never get up again.” 

Derek quirked a small smile. He could relate to that. He had no idea what time it was, but he was pretty sure that it was the early hours of the morning. The fancy dinner parties and the dances always lasted late into the night, so late that it became early again. 

“In that case, I’ll move out of the way then,” Derek said. He held his hands up in mock-surrender as the boy shot him a suspicious look, and then side-stepped away from the balcony wall. 

“I don’t normally have audiences for this,” the boy said, still narrowing his eyes in Derek’s direction. He had quite nice eyes, all bright and gleaming in the light of the moon. They were the colour of syrup, bright golden syrup that pooled in the centre and glinted strangely. 

“In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever had an audience for this,” the boy continued agitatedly. “I don’t suppose you’ve suddenly thought of somewhere that you desperately need to be as soon as possible? I could direct you to some excellent shadows, if you like.” 

Derek shrank back a little. His face heated up as he attempted to find the right words. 

“I came from the party,” Derek blurted out. “It was too crowded.” 

The boy peered at him. “Not up for talking to people, huh, big guy? I get that.” 

Derek felt his face flush even further. He wasn’t usually shy. Reserved, yes, and definitely introverted, but not shy. But this boy seemed to force his tongue to twist up impossible and reduce him to a Neanderthal state. 

“Aw hell, man,” the boy said, looking a little taken-aback. “I can’t force you to leave now, not now that I know you’re all soft and squishy on the inside. You can stay here whilst I light this, but you’ve gotta promise me that you won’t tell a soul about what you see.” 

Derek was too busy spluttering over the soft and squishy comment to be too worried about this boy’s job. 

“I’m Stiles, by the way,” the boy said, smiling at him. Derek had to pause to catch his breath at the sight. The moon threw his face into sharp relief, and his smile was a bright curve on his face, soft lips just ever so slightly parted. 

Derek swallowed. “Derek,” he said, making an aborted movement with his hand. He wasn’t sure if he was going to wave or shake the boy’s hand, but Stiles didn’t appear to notice it, or if he did, he ignored it. Derek was grateful, shoving both of his hands into the pockets of his trousers. 

Stiles didn’t pay him much notice after that. He began to rub his hands together slowly, the motions practiced and careful. He had slim, long fingers, each one the colour of alabaster, with rounded nails. His palms were criss-crossed with deep lines, and his skin looked soft. He had strong knuckles and the edges tapered down into delicate wrists. He wore a thin leather band around his arm, frayed slightly at the knot. 

Derek watched as the boy drifted over towards the corner of the balcony and stretched his hands up towards the curve of the roof. There was a thin shape there, blacker than shadow, which Stiles brushed his fingers against. His eyes were closed, allowing Derek to stare at the thin traceries of veins beneath his skin, the almost translucent sheen to his eyelids, and the sweep of dark lashes. It was like looking at a painting, a beautiful, iridescent painting brought to life by the moonlight and the quiet evening sounds. 

Stiles murmured something softly, so softly that Derek could not pick up the words, nor could he tell if they had even been words. They might have been whispers of a dead language, they might have been the hum of a bird’s wing, or they might have been the very words that the trees murmured to each other in leafy tones. They might have been all of those things put together. 

Before Derek’s very eyes, light bloomed in the corner of the balcony. It was the softest of lights, the kind that poured from the mouth of the heavens, and it was cupped carefully in the thin hands of the mysterious boy before him. Stiles cracked open one eyelid and a wistful, nostalgic smile warmed his face. The light did not flicker. It was a steady handful of pure white flame that waited, poised and ready. 

Stiles brought the light to his hands and blew against it. In a steady stream, the light began to dissolve into sparks, sparks that hovered in the black air before floating towards the thin black shape. The light stuck there, nestling in the depths of the black twists of iron that made up a thin lamp. The glow seemed to fill the air, as if it were truly at home here.  
Derek tore his awestruck gaze away to look at Stiles, whose pleased, slightly nervous expression flickered over to something a little more hesitantly. He looked surprised, as if he’d expected Derek to scoff or roll his eyes. 

“That was incredible,” Derek breathed hoarsely. The light seemed to have stolen all of his air; Derek was happy to give it all up in the face of such brightness. 

Stiles regarded him warily. “You really mean that, don’t you?” he asked, realisation colouring his tone. His cheeks were a little flushed, as if he weren’t sure what to do in the face of Derek’s admiration. 

“That’s what you do?” Derek asked. “That’s your job. It’s incredible. It’s like looking at more than light.”

Stiles laughed, and Derek was immediately as mesmerised by the sound as he was the light. It was the loudest, most genuine sound he had ever heard, and it rang around them like golden bells. 

“That’s because it is more than light,” Stiles said, warming to the subject. “I’ve never had anyone notice before, let alone take an interest in what I do. My mother’s Grandfather was the first to start the tradition. He called himself The Lamplighter, and the name stuck for the past few generations.” 

“Lamplighter,” Derek repeated, testing the word on his tongue. Most of his awkwardness had faded into excitement, that eager rush he always received at the promise of learning something new, of discovering something, of exploring. 

“It sounds pretentious, doesn’t it?” Stiles said, wincing like he already knew Derek’s reply. 

“Not at all,” Derek said, shaking his head. “It’s a simple term, really, and it doesn’t overshadow the brilliance of what you do.” 

Stiles stared at him, open-mouthed. Derek got the impression that Stiles wasn’t often speechless, but right now he seemed lost for words. Derek turned crimson and hastily took a step back, holding up one hand in apology. 

“I’m sorry,” Derek said, his voice dropping several octaves, as it always did when he was embarrassed. “That was a little forward. I only meant that it seems like an important job. You seem well-practiced at it.” 

Stiles looked at him for a moment longer, but to Derek’s slow delight, he didn’t seem offended by Derek’s lack of courteous manners. Perhaps forwardness was his forte, Derek didn’t know. He just knew that the light in Stiles’ eye was not entirely a reflection of the real light, but of something warmer and more pleased. 

“I’ve been doing this since I was eight,” Stiles said proudly, clearing his throat. “Had to carry a step around with me back then, since I was so small that I couldn’t reach the Lamps, at first.” 

He scowled, as if the indignity of it still bruised him in some way. The sight had Derek holding back a startled laugh. 

“Your Father let you wander around at night at that age?” Andrew Hale had never been a particularly limiting person, but he had been protective up until the point that Derek could hold his own in the sparring fields. That had been around his eighth birthday as well. Derek was a skilled swordsman, even though the skill wasn’t one that he particularly enjoyed putting to use. He preferred reading to swinging a sword around.

“I’m a determined person,” Stiles said around a grin, “I told him that it was my duty to do this, and that he wouldn’t lay down his badge and sword just because the job was dangerous. I told him I wanted to be more like him. You should have seen his face.” 

Derek didn’t bother holding back a laugh this time. He let it burst forth, shaking his head at the proud, mischievous grin that bloomed at the corners of Stiles’ mouth. 

“Did he really believe all of that?” Derek asked, grinning incredulously. 

“Not really, no,” Stiles said, shrugging with a deep, dramatic sigh. “He said I could do it as long as one of his deputy guards went along behind me. And that if I wanted to be more like him then I could wash the dishes every now and again, or sweep the floor. Naturally, I politely declined that invitation.” 

“As any eight year old boy would do,” Derek agreed, bowing his head. 

Stiles spread his hands. “And if he offered me the same deal last year, and I declined that, well, who’s to know?” 

He winked conspiratorially at Derek, and Derek shook his head back, but could not quite bite back his grin. 

Stiles returned the smile, and once again, Derek was stopped short. 

He had long since made his peace with the fact that he could love men as well as women. It was a surprisingly common occurrence in many of the overseas cities, the kind that Cora liked to visit with her many ladies-in-waiting. Cora was often upon ships, travelling to and from places, but to Derek’s constant dismay she didn’t bother to learn anything about the places she visited. Instead, she frequented the clothing stores and the sparring fields. 

Not that Cora was an airhead. She was sharp and quick-witted, but she had no patience for schooling or education, not when there were people to talk to and things to buy. 

Her main source of gossip was down to which noble was dating and who they were dating and where they first met and all of the other rubbish that Derek couldn’t be bothered to pay attention to. But he did let himself linger when Cora talked of the dukes in other countries that dated Princes, the Princesses who courted other ladies. The world they lived in was a tolerant one, and so Derek had pushed back his shame and told himself again and again that it was fine to love who you loved, as long as that love didn’t hurt anyone. 

It had been slow-going, but Derek was at peace with himself now, at least in that aspect of his life. 

“So, Derek, what brings you up here? Besides a deathly fear of the waltz, if I heard correctly?” Stiles’s voice, which was low and melodic, drew him softly from his thoughts. 

Derek snorted. “I needed some air. The dances always go on for a long time, ‘til the early hours, and I didn’t want to be pestered into staying that long. My sisters can be very determined when they set their minds to it.” 

“I have a friend who’s very much like a sister to me, I suppose,” Stiles said, leaning back against the balcony wall. Derek took a small step forward, a little too eager to be closer to him. 

“She was at the dance tonight, I think,” Stiles said, eyes tipped up to look at the light. “She sings on her own, mostly, but sometimes the King and Queen request her presence at their dances, and she sings with the band. She can be determined when she wants to be, normally she drags me to these events by my ear.”

Derek laughed, because that sounded familiar. The he casts his mind back to the ball room. “You mean the ginger woman in the green dress, with the very high voice?” 

“Strawberry-blonde,” Stiles cut in, speaking over him. His eyes were wide with mock-fear. “You don’t call her ginger unless you want a sword shoved somewhere painful.” 

Derek laughed at that, and then moved nearer to the light. He found that if he looked away from it for too long, a little shiver ran up his back and his chest felt oddly heavy. 

“You mentioned, a moment ago, that these were not just lights,” Derek muttered, avoiding Stiles’ gaze. “It sounded as if you have a history to this, the kind that gets passed down through generations. Is it a secret, or can you share it?” 

Stiles shifted a little. Derek closed a little bit more of the space between them, almost accidentally. It was like he couldn’t help itself. It was like a moth being drawn to an open flame, but Derek was a willing participant and Stiles was so much more than a flame. 

“It’s supposed to be secret,” Stiles admitted, fidgeting a little. He blew out a harsh breath. “My family is an old one. We have always been rooted in Beacon. My Grandfather used to say that we were here before the trees were, before there were ships on the sea and stars on the horizon. Our family outroots the forest.” 

Derek tilted his head to the side. Stiles seemed a little nervous, but he was leaning in, closing up the gap between them until there were barely more than a few breaths in the space there. 

“My family,” Derek started to say, before he swallowed hard. He licked his dry lips and looked at Stiles’ face, at the curiosity embedded deep within his eyes. 

It was odd, all of this. Derek didn’t like people, usually, and it had started off so awkwardly that he had expected for Stiles to run as soon as he finished his job. But the strange company of the light and Stiles’ curious, handsome face and the Kingdom stretched out behind them, it made Derek brave, brave in a way that he had never been before. 

“Do you know who I am?” Derek asked. He tried to make the question as light as possible. He didn’t want Stiles to think he was being big-headed, or pulling rank. He wanted Stiles to tell him about the Lamplighters because Stiles wanted to, not because he thought Derek was ordering him to. Not that Derek thought that ordering him to do anything would do any good. Stiles did not seem like a person who took orders well. 

Stiles looked briefly surprised, and then narrowed his eyes suspiciously. His arms came up to cross over his chest. “Should I?” he asked, and Derek thought about it. 

“Not really, I suppose,” Derek said. It was Laura that he should have known, but even then it wouldn’t have been important, since Laura was only the future Queen, not due to take the throne for at least another three years, a fact which irritated his older sister. She was not power-hungry, but she was impatient. 

“But my family,” Derek said again, getting the words out this time, “you should know who my family is.” 

“You came from the ball,” Stiles said slowly. “You know your way up here.” Derek could see the realisation begin to bloom on Stiles’ face. His eyes held a hint of panic as he looked Derek up and down and then glanced around hurriedly, as if he were waiting for several guards to come and snatch him away from Derek. 

“Oh, hell,” Stiles said, rather blankly. He looked shocked. Derek winced and waved a hand awkwardly, as if they were only just meeting for the first time. 

“How did I not recognise your name?” Stiles demanded, although he seemed to be angrier with himself than with Derek. 

Derek shrugged. “More people don’t,” he said lightly. “It’s alright. If I had been Laura then you would have been in trouble. She gets miffed if people don’t know who she is. It doesn’t bode well for her reign, apparently.” 

Stiles was still staring at him incredulously. “You're the Prince. And you said I was brilliant.” 

Derek blushed, and something in Stiles’ expression changed. 

“Wait,” Stiles said slowly. “You said I was brilliant. _You_ said _I_ was brilliant. You as in, the Crown Prince, and me as in the lowly commoner who’s Dad just so happens to be the Sheriff. I light the lamps in your home.”

“And I would like to know more about that, if you wouldn’t mind,” Derek said, ignoring the rest of that. If he could ignore his own terrible attempt at subtle flattery, then maybe it would cease to exist. 

By the slightly unholy look of glee on Stiles’ face, he doubted that would be happening anytime soon. 

“Actually, your mother knows all about it,” Stiles said, shifting to sit on top of the balcony wall. Derek made a choked off noise in his throat and moved forward, one hand automatically travelling to Stiles’ knee, which he gripped tightly. 

Stiles looked from the hand to Derek’s face, and then back down again. 

“You could fall,” Derek said seriously. “I would tell you to get down, but I sense you would just edge farther out of I did.” 

Stiles grinned blindingly. “You know me well, and it’s only been half an hour.” 

Derek felt taken-aback. Had it really been such a short amount of time? It had felt like years and seconds in a simultaneous instant. 

“Did you say my mother knows about it?” Derek asked, determined to get to the bottom of this. 

“I have never met her,” Stiles said, shrugging. “I’ve seen her, of course, and the King, at the Royal Grounds and the pantomime in Graceville. I even almost got run over by their carriage down on Wayward Lane. Although that was mostly my fault, since I was carrying about four bags of potatoes and a catapult. I wasn’t really paying attention.” 

Derek mouthed the word ‘potatoes’ with all the wonder of an artist surveying it’s finished canvas, and resolved to ask Stiles about that later. 

“But she met with my mother, and her mother before that,” Stiles continued. “All of our family have met with the Queen, I do believe. Apparently, during every meeting, the Lamplighter at the time shares the secret of Lamplighting with Queen Talia, and Queen Talia shares the secret of her family back. It’s the same ritual with every new Lamplighter. I haven’t had my turn yet, since I started so young. I’ll meet her when I come of age in terms of our family, which is in a year.” 

Derek swallowed back his shock. There was only one secret that his mother could have possibly told these people, and it was one that she had forced them all to promise to take to the grave with them. It would not do, she had said, to let the world know of our heritage. It was a tolerant place, Beacon, but tolerance was not acceptance, and unacceptance could breed war. 

She had wanted to keep the peace for as long as she could. 

“A secret for a secret,” Derek said, a little hoarse. Stiles caught his gaze and nodded, holding it. Derek squeezed Stiles’ knee involuntarily, and the boy let out a small breath. 

“I would still like to know, about your Lamplighting,” Derek said quietly. 

Stiles watched him. “A secret for a secret, remember.” 

“I have a secret,” Derek said, swallowing back his fear. “Of course, you will have to pretend to be surprised when my Mother tells you it again, but I will happily tell it to you, as long as it stays between us.” 

“You really want to know that badly?” Stiles asked, furrowing his brow. 

“I’m a curious person,” Derek said. “I like to know things. And there’s something about all of this that demands to be known.” 

Stiles tilted his head to the side and surveyed him with a warm smile. “You’re a lot bigger on the inside than you are on the outside, aren’t you? You’re like one of those ships in the bottle. Everyone’s looking in, admiring it, thinking that’s all there is to it, but if they just took it out of that glass case, they could watch it sail.” 

Derek didn’t know what to say. Words failed him, and he simply looked at the boy in front of him, looked from the warm smile to the hands that drummed a restless tune against the wall. Derek caught up those agitated fingers and brought them to his mouth.

And then he did something that he had never done before, not even in his dreams. He had resigned himself quite contently to living alone, never expecting to find a person with whom he wanted to share space with, let alone a person that he wanted to kiss. 

But Stiles was different, and Stiles could apparently see through him, past the glass case and into the heart of him, where the true wonder lay. 

And so he brought Stiles’ hand to his mouth and pressed his lips to Stiles’ skin and kissed his hands, and then his knuckles. And then he brushed a kiss along the underside of his wrist, and then he gently placed the hand back on top of the stone and let his eyes bleed blue. 

It took a moment for Stiles to react, and when he did, it was not at all in the way that Derek had anticipated. At first, he stared at Derek’s lips, stunned and rubbing his hand with his other hand, where Derek’s mouth had been. And then, as the peek of two fangs extended below Derek’s top lip, Stiles eyes shot up to stare into Derek’s abnormally blue ones, and he made a high-pitched sound in his throat. 

And then those devastating hands came up to stroke down the side of Derek’s face. Derek grew very still, stiffening at the touch and forcing himself not to lean into it. 

“I was expecting more panic,” Derek said. "Perhaps some screaming?" He had perfected the art of talking around his elongated teeth, but surprise muffled his words. He felt like a teenager again, lost and a little unsure in his body. 

“Oh, I’m panicking, big guy, no doubt about that,” Stiles muttered, still running his fingers reverently over Derek’s face. “For one thing, you turned out to be the Prince, and you kissed me. Granted, on the hand, but it still counts, so don’t you dare attempt to take it back. And for another thing, I’m touching your face, and it doesn’t look human. Is it human?” 

“It’s a secret,” Derek said, moving his hands up to grasp Stiles’ wrists. He didn’t pause their exploration, but simply touched the skin there, allowing his own hands to be dragged along with Stiles’. “Our family is also tied to the forest. Wolves roamed the lands here, before there were buildings and carriages and hunters and their horses. When the first people of Beacon came here from across the Amber Sea, they set down at the base of what is now our Kingdom. And the wolves were afraid that the humans would take their land from there, that they may never own it again, and so they watched the people and took on their shape and became part-wolf, part-man. They prayed to the moon to let them return to their wolf-like states, and the moon was kind and gentle and saw the nobility in their new nature, and she allowed it.” 

Stiles was watching him with wide eyes, hanging tenderly to every word. Derek shrank back in the face of such awe and cleared his throat roughly, attempting to cut through some of the tension. 

“My mother told us that story every night when we were little, before bed, to remind us that our wolf ancestry is just as important as our human one, that they were one in the same. She wanted us to feel at home with all parts of ourselves, to never doubt the nature of the man or the wolf, for we are neither. We are both,” Derek finished quietly. 

“That is a secret worth keeping,” Stiles said eventually. “And you have a beautiful voice.” 

Derek spluttered something intelligible as Stiles grinned at him. He was leaning into Derek, and Derek could feel the warmth of him everywhere. Even without the light there, Derek thought, he would be warm as long as Stiles was near. 

It was too strong a thought to be having, Derek realised, and he forced himself to take a minor step backwards, to let their breaths become their own again. Stiles, whether he felt the same or not, copied his movements, sitting up straight on the balcony. 

“I promise not to tell a soul,” Stiles said, smiling. “And I promise to act surprised in front of your mother next year, when she tells me the same story.” 

“I am sure she will tell it much better than I ever could.” Derek bit his lip. He was beginning to worry that he had not done it justice, this tale of courage and strength that had made it possible for him to live as he was. But Stiles only nodded and smiled ruefully. 

“I thought the same about my mother and her stories,” Stiles said slowly. It seemed to pain him, just to say the words. “When she died, I thought that there was no possible way I would ever sleep again, for who would tell a story with as much love and character, as much soothing promise as her?” 

Derek kept quiet. This was not a part of the secret, not entirely, and yet Stiles seemed to feel the need to say it. And Derek knew then that this was a little more serious than he had ever anticipated, and he didn’t care. He wanted to hear Stiles talk, no matter what he talked about. 

And Stiles wanted Derek to listen. 

“I didn’t sleep for the first night after she died,” Stiles said. “And my Dad, I could hear him downstairs, just talking to himself. And then on the third night, when I was bone-tired, he came up and sat himself next to me and started to read from memory. And it was the same stories she had read me, the ones about Lamplighters and the Forests of Malgoon and the Great Ballooon Races in the North, and the spirit lands across the Amber Sea. I never realised that he had listened to them, too, every night. And I realised that we would both miss her stories, but that as long as we remembered them and told them again and again, we could keep her voice alive.” 

Derek let Stiles have a moment before he spoke. “They sound like worthy contenders to my story,” he said, a little teasingly. He had never mastered the art of casual mockery, of joking between friends, because he didn’t have many friends, and his sisters were sour when he outwitted them. But this flew easily, this relationship, fluid and sound, and he thought he could spend many days teasing a laugh from Stiles. 

And Stiles did laugh, wiping his eyes discreetly on his sleeve and straightening up to narrow his eyes playfully at Derek. “You have no idea, I would beat you soundly in a storytelling fight. You’ll learn not to make fun of me eventually.” 

“I highly doubt that,” Derek said, grinning. “Making fun of you seems like a worthwhile career, one I shall dedicate my life to working on.” 

Stiles caught his breath and then laughed, loud and clear. It was such a bright sound that the little handful of light in the lantern seemed to grow dim in comparison. 

“I think I’ll explain something a bit happier to you now,” Stiles said, sliding off of the wall smoothly. Derek leaned up against the wall, keeping an eye on Stiles whilst gazing out at the Kingdom. Stiles moved his hands swiftly when he talked, but it was nothing compared to his words, which flew from his lips. 

“When my Great-Great-Great Grandfather was young, his parents called him Benjie. He was special, as far as young boys went. He could move light where it hit the earth, redirect sunbeams and catch the glow of the moon in his palm.” 

Derek listened intently, ignoring his Kingdom in favour of Stiles, whose bright eyes reflected the gaze of the moon. 

“It was a trait which he grew to think could be useful. It was given to him by the world, and so he assumed he must give something back to it. And so he set off on his own to travel, until he came across Beacon. He wrote in his journal that something drew him to this still new Kingdom, something other than its name. It was almost like it called to his light.” 

It was oddly fitting, Derek thought, for somewhere like this to have drawn a family as bright as Stiles’. 

“He met the Queen here, an ageless woman with dark hair and red eyes, and she told him of their stories, sensing something magical about him,” Stiles continued. “And they sat and shared their true natures with each other, and the Queen decided to ask him for a favour.” 

“What favour was that?” Derek asked, leaning in. 

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Well, I can’t tell you if you interrupt me, can I? Did I interrupt your story? No, I thought not.” 

A smile ticked at the corner of Derek’s mouth, and he pantomimed zipping his lips shut. He tossed the imaginary key over the edge of the balcony with an exaggerated throw, and listened to Stiles splutter with laughter. 

“Moron,” Stiles mumbled under his breath, and then shook himself as he went back to his story. 

“As I was saying,” Stiles said pointedly, “the Queen asked Benjie for a favour. And Benjie heard what she asked for, and the troubled note in her voice as she explained the war that was growing in the Mountains of Bearn, and he bowed his head and promised to do all of that and more.” 

“You have to understand something about the lamps,” Stiles said, speaking earnestly now, “they weren’t there when Benjie arrived, but by the time the war was at its peak, the lamps were all over the Kingdom of Beacon. And every night, Benjie walked the streets and blew moonlight into the lamps, and instead of just light, he captured the hope and loyalty of the people, and their prayers for safety infiltrated his magic and set the Kingdom aglow.” 

“The lamps keep us safe?” Derek asked, startled. 

Stiles shook his head. “The lamps hold the light, and the lights keep you safe. My mother said that Benjie was born with a spark of starlight in his soul, and that light bled into everything that he did and made the world a brighter place. Benjie passed that spark along to his son and his son passed it on to his son, until my mother was born with it, and then me, eventually. I have a spark inside me that lets me light these lamps and keep our Kingdom safe.” 

Derek lifted one hand carefully, and laid his palm flat against Stiles’ cheek. The skin there was warm. “It’s a beautiful tale. It’s one of those tales that’s never going to die.” 

Stiles beamed. “I’m never going to let it die. Benjie wanted to make the world brighter, and my mother would have done the same if she hadn’t died so young. Now, I get to make it twice as bright, for her.” 

You’ve already made my world twice as bright, Derek thought, but he couldn’t say the words. Maybe later, maybe one day soon, maybe, but not now. He would tell him, though. 

Right now, Derek settled for kissing Stiles, and the light behind them flickered, and grew brighter, and the moon smiled kindly over them as she dipped slowly down towards the horizon.

**Author's Note:**

> Leave a comment or a kudos on the way out, let me know what you thought?  
> Find me on tumblr @thealmostrhetoricalquestion.  
> Thank you so much!


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